Being Irish Means Sunday is Your Day

It’s as much a tradition as a corned beef sandwich and like it or not you’re getting it again this year.

St. Patrick’s Day is a public holiday in Ireland while here it’s more likely associated with celebrations and parties. The Jersey Shore is home to many who will be toasting the patron saint himself at places like Klee’s Bar and Grill (Seaside Heights) The Crab’s Claw Inn (Lavallette), The Mantoloking Road Alehouse (Brick) , McIntyre’s Pub (Toms River), River Rock (Brick) and many others.

So being the grandson of Lillian Maloney, who I never met, I deliver this updated version of a little ditty from Joseph Keefe about what being Irish truly means:

You will never play pro basketball.

You swear very well.

At least one of your cousins is a cop, fireman, bar owner, funeral home owner or holds public office.

You think you sing very well and while you don’t know the words that does not stop you.

You have no idea how to make a long story short.

Much of your food was boiled.

You spent a good portion of your childhood kneeling.

You will be punched for no good reason a lot. Some punches are legacies from past generations.

Your sister will punch you because your brother punched her.

You can’t wait for the other guy to stop talking so you can start.

You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are but what you lack in talent you make up for in frequency.

Your parents were on a first-name basis with everyone in the ER of your local hospital.

You are or know someone named Murph. If you don’t know Murph then you now Mac. If you don’t know either of them for sure you know Sully.

You have a sister or cousin named Mary, Eileen, Catherine or Colleen.

You are genetically incapable of keeping a secret.

There wasn’t a huge difference between your last wake and your last keg party.